Oil on Apology
by southern cross
Summary: Spoilers for the painting episode. There is an apology owed and she was looking forward to collecting. His restitution though might be too much for her. Grace/Patrick.


This 'ship and this show are killing me! I mean I have a crap ton of other WIP's and then they throw me a curve in the last eppy and my muse kicks me in the shin and demands fic. So here it is folks another Patrick/Grace fic, this time though Grace is speaking to us. I would love to hear thoughts, good and bad, so please leave a review. I own nothing and mean no harm.

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"I owe you an apology."

Yeah, he really did. And she had been waiting for it; for twelve days she had been waiting. Now he owed her an apology for that.

He was still standing in the doorway arms crossed behind his back, it was strange to see him without a vest and collared shirt; the jeans and t-shirt were disconcerting. He was probably thinking the same thing about her clothing, given that she was in pale pink pajama bottoms and an old boyfriend's white wife beater.

Huh, he owed her an apology for that to; it was after so very wrong to knock on someone's door at one A.M.

"Can I come in?"

Reigning in her wandering thoughts she considered slamming the door in his face. Would serve him right after all, and she could admit she liked making him squirm on her front porch.

But she didn't have it in her to be that rude.

With a sigh, exaggerated and epic, she swung the open and waved him in, "Fine."

Without waiting for him she turned and headed for the living room, the door closed and the lock engaged and she was alone with Patrick.

Weird, he was Jane at the office, always, but this wasn't the office, it was her living room at one oh five A.M.

Where that thought had come from and why she had made the name switch in her head she had no idea, but it was there.

"You want to tell me something, a ground rule."

Her shocked expression, and really she shouldn't be shocked; he was after all, _the_ Patrick Jane, no matter where he was.

But he was right and so she shut her mouth, raised her eyebrow at his cheeky grin and laid it out.

"Don't play me, not here, not now," the grin faded off his face; good.

"I'm Grace, you're Patrick and please have a seat," she motioned to the chair by the fireplace and he sat automatically, she had surprised him.

Power in the room shifted to somewhere in the middle and she resisted the urge to snatch it up, busying herself instead with taking a seat on the adjacent sofa. Let the playing field be even; at least until he tried to make a play for it.

"Fair enough," he recovered well, she smiled at him.

"The way I see it, you owe me more than one apology," his eyebrow rose at that, "Do I?"

She nodded as he settled back into his seat, his expression was thoughtful, he looked genuinely bemused and curious by her remark; at least she thought it was genuine.

"Maybe I do," his smile was unnerving, all teeth and laugh lines; she had never heard him laugh. Chuckle, yes, and that often, but a full on throaty belly laugh; never.

The question was on the tip of her tongue, when he raised his hands to run them through his hair and her eyes fell on his ring finger.

The question died, she had no right to ask it.

"I put you in harm's way," the abrupt change in topics caught her off guard. There was no smile on his face now, he wore guilt too well.

An apology was not what she wanted anymore and really she had been the one to screw up. Falling too hard into the cover had been wholly unprofessional and had she not let her guard down the situation might have been avoided.

"I put myself in harm's way," it was important now that he not shoulder the blame for that; not for her.

He started thought and stopped explanations, but the words were failing him, rather than intervene she gave him time.

When there was frustrated silence between them she spelled out what had happened after he left the room.

All the information had been in her report, but he hadn't read it, she had asked; he had chosen guilt.

There was more time spent in silence as he considered her words, she thought it had registered, the battle was waging clearly on his face.

"Still," she had lost him.

"Patrick, please," the shock of it, his name, rolled through them both, but she recovered quicker, "don't do this. Not for me," she hoped he got it. She didn't want to be the one to push the guilt away; she was certain he was stronger.

His eyes were tense as he studied her, she fought the urge to squirm in her seat; to leave her face open and her eyes honest took concentration. Honesty was what would get through to him and she wanted that.

"You mean it," it was a statement, she nodded yes anyway.

"Fine," he slapped his knees, his mood changing abruptly.

"But one day you'll have to explain that last bit to me," his eyes flicked to hers, they were sharp and knowing and he knew the reason, wanted her to admit it, but she wouldn't; her cheeks burning red, damn her fair skin.

He chuckled, closer to a laugh than what she was used to and she smiled in return.

"Now about those other two apologies I hope this will make up for them since I'm not allowed to feel bad about the other thing," he jumped up from his seat before she fully registered what he had said; she had nearly forgotten her apology quota had risen and why. And what exactly was 'this'?

Leaning forward, he had disappeared back down the hall and into the foyer, her mouth opened to call to him when he appeared, that shit eating grin in fine form.

She sat back reflexively, he had something in his hand; something thin and square, "Oh my God."

Her hands flew to her face as he propped said item on the back of the chair he had been sitting in, she had an idea, a horrible, terrible idea as to what it was he was holding and really, really did not want him to reveal-

"It's you!" he pulled the drop cloth off and a small painting sitting there, a small painting in a simple wood stained frame with her in it.

There were no words, "Why-how-what," there were some, but nothing that could fully encompass what she felt at seeing her face and body in profile in paint.

"I had it commissioned for you, you know after," he came over and took the seat next to her, propping one edge of the frame on her knee and one on his, "I think it turned out really well."

He had to be joking, she looked sideways at him, but his attention was on the painting and he looked ever so sincere. Turning her attention back to the canvas, she forced herself to take a good hard look at it.

Huh, it wasn't that bad, not really. It was obviously her, the profile and nose clearly belonged to a Van Pelt, and her hair had never looked better if not quite that long in reality.

The woman, her, was standing in an empty room, rough hewn wooden floors and walls bare to the drywall, but the woman wasn't aware of her surroundings, the drab and gray made no impact on her, no, her attention was on the window; her eyes looking out over the lush green landscape just there on the other side of the thin pane of glass.

It was as beautiful as it was sad and she loved it instantly and fiercely, "I'm so glad you like it," her eyes slid back over to Patrick and found him staring at her smiling sweetly. They were sitting close, closer than she had ever been to him and she suddenly aware just how attractive he was and just how attracted she was to him.

The heat flared up in her stomach, his shoulder against her bare arm sent jolts of electricity down her spine; whoa, it had been way too freaking long.

"Um," she was appalled at where her thoughts had stumbled, she looked back down at the painting, yes, and she should think about that, "I love it."

And she did, he could tell was again grinning at her and she hoped he hadn't picked up on her vibe; that was not a world of complication she wanted to step in yet, or ever.

"Great, now we have to find a place to hang it," he rose and took the painting, began to wander around her living room testing the show case potential of certain bare spots.

Sitting back she watched him move around the room amazed that it was now one twenty one A.M. and she was in her pajamas with Patrick Jane, had managed to finagle an apology, three, out of him, a pretty awesome present, and a pretty good idea that she was falling for him.

Dropping her head back onto the cushion she heard him shouting for directions to her bedroom, unreal, the whole moment, evening was; she was heading for trouble, she could feel it.

He popped back into the living room, "I love what you've done with the master bath, speaks very highly of your use of space," and disappeared back around the corner leaving her sitting there, mouth agape; he didn't seem to mind the lateness of the hour, and she didn't see him leaving anytime soon.

Big heart wrenching trouble was waiting for her, "damn."

She really should have slammed the door in his face.


End file.
